Karen made a face as if to say that she wasn't sure. "Just tell me anything. Basic shit."
Pickle grinned and felt a tad embarrassed. He had no idea why she wanted to know more of his background. Maybe it was a woman thing, he thought. He tried to appease her and began. "Well, I'm not really into political parties. I hate politicians."
"Who doesn't? When's your birthday?"
"October twelfth."
"Wicked; that means you're a Libran, like me."
"Karen," Pickle guffawed, "that doesn't mean anything to me."
Karen sighed, "Okay, mardy bum. Music?"
"U2, The Beatles, Zeppelin—that kind o' stuff."
"Nicknames?"
Pickle created a half-shrug and peered around to make sure there was no sign of a ghoul ready to stumble out of the woodland where they had just exited. "Apart from Pickle? Just the one." Pickle then blushed, which gave a Karen a warm glow inside of her, as it looked so sweet that a man of his power could be embarrassed by something, anything.
Karen nudged him in the side, playfully. "Come on, Branston," she teased. "Out with it."
"Promise yer won't laugh?"
"Oh, I can't do that." Karen began to chuckle. She then saw that serious look off of him and she settled down. She coughed and asked him, "What was it?"
"In prison, they used to call me..." Pickle lowered his head and cleared his throat. "...The Horse."
Karen bit her lower lip, trying to stifle the laugh that was aching to be released. It eventually was released and even Pickle smiled at Karen's hilarity that he hadn't seen before. It was good to see her laugh, even if it was at his expense.
"The Horse?" Her cackling continued and now there was tears streaming down her face. "You're making me cry."
Pickle looked at Karen wiping the running tears from her cheeks with the back of her hands. "Better for the water to run from yer eyes than down yer thighs, Bradley."
She had almost managed to compose herself; confident that she could muster a sentence without it being interrupted with a giggle, she questioned, "Why did they call you that? Is it because you used to shit like one?"
"No, you cheeky bitch," he tittered. "Because I'm hung like one, of course."
"A sea horse?"
"Very funny." He feigned hurt on his features and added, "Back in my area I had quite the reputation."
"Oh, I could imagine," Karen continued to mock. "Here comes Harry Branston, everybody. Quick, lock up your goats."
After the laughter had eventually subsided, they both began to sit in silence. Pickle drew in a breath. He cleared his throat and added, "On a more serious note, ma childhood wasn't the best. Ma father was an alcoholic, and could be quite abusive at times. He used to beat the shit out o' ma mother."
"No brothers or sisters?"
Pickle shook his head and added, "When I was sixteen, ma mother had killed herself. Painkiller overdose. I left home soon after that, selling hash to support myself. I was then arrested for selling illegal substances and was sent to prison for a few months. I got a few handy contacts from inside and built my business up once I was out."
"So you've been in the drugs game since you were a teenager?"
"Yip." Pickle smacked his lips together and began to chew the inside of his mouth.
A few seconds of silence came after Pickle's short answer, and Karen assumed that the forty-three-year-old wasn't entirely comfortable talking about his past when he was being questioned, although he had told Karen some stories when she never had asked.
She broke the silence with a less serious query. "So, how much are you worth?"
"Well, not that it makes any difference now, but I had properties all over England, two villas in Spain and—"
"How much?" she asked with a snicker.
"About ten million."
"Wow." Karen's facial expression suggested that she was impressed, but decided not to press any further. She had plenty of time to get to know Pickle more, or at least she hoped she would have, and decided to give him a break from her probing. Maybe he would tell her more about his past when he was ready.
Pickle got to his feet and began brushing the grass off of the back of his grey jogging bottoms. Karen saw this as a sign that he was ready to move, and had interpreted the body language correctly.
Pickle's stomach growled loudly for food, which humoured the pair of them. He looked at his female companion with a grin and playfully patted his stomach. "I could eat a horse."
Karen snickered once again and threw her arms around a man that she adored. "Harry Branston, I love you."
As soon as she said those three words, her laughter quickly diminished and she produced a thin smile while her cheeks flushed red.
Pickle put his arm around Karen, brought her nearer to him and kissed her on the top of her head. "I know, Karen. I know."
Chapter Thirteen
"Come here," Jack beckoned Johnny over.
They were both in the canteen and had been emptying what was left in the vending machines, and had taken the tins from behind the kitchen area. Other food such as meats and fruit were rotten, and just the smell of the stuff was making Johnny's stomach turn, although Jack had pointed out that a huge percentage of the smell could be coming from the two deceased that were lying in the corner of the room with their heads bashed in.
"What is it?" asked Johnny.
Johnny had just filled a bag; the main contents of the bag was juice, chocolate bars and crisps. He went over to Jack who was standing still, peeking out of the canteen window that looked out onto the car park.
Surrounding the car park was a wire-mesh fence. Johnny stood next to Jack and they both glared out into the real world, or surreal world. Not one man spoke for a minute as their eyes focused on the events that were happening outside.
Eventually Johnny spoke. "So this is what we're dealing with." He gulped and continued to gawp at the five ghouls hanging outside the fence.
"I didn't wanna tell you before, in case you refused to leave, but you need to see this." Jack remained transfixed on the dead and said, without looking at Johnny, "There was two last time I looked. There's now five, but by the time night comes, there could be fifty. Then the next day—"
"I get it," Johnny snapped. "If we want to leave this place, we need to go soon? Is that what you're saying?"
"Like now." Jack turned to face Johnny and asked him, "You need the toilet?"
Johnny thought it was a peculiar question to ask him; he scrunched his face with puzzlement. He shook his head.
"Good. Then we can go."
They took a bag each full of food and liquids, and Johnny kept behind Jack as he pushed open the door to the outside, onto the car park, the fresh air caressing their faces. Johnny couldn't believe how cool Jack looked; he never once looked at the dead walkers that were loitering outside the fence, who were a bit more excited now there were humans on show.
Jack casually went over to the black jeep and opened it up while Johnny stared in disbelief at the state of the dead things; one looked like a child, no older than seven years old.
"Johnny!" Jack called over; he was now sitting in the car with the driver's door still open. "Quit eyeballing them. We gotta go."
Johnny took a deep breath in to control his heartbeat. His wobbly legs reluctantly went their way over towards Jack. He sat on the passenger seat, and both men now had shut their doors.
Johnny placed his forehead onto the dashboard and began to cry. His body shook with fright, and he quickly tried to pull himself together and searched through the glove compartment for tissues. He had found a packet, and quickly cleaned himself up and immediately looked embarrassed for his mini-breakdown.
He cleared his throat and without looking at Jack, Johnny nodded forward, as if to say that he was as ready as he'll ever be and that they should drive on.
Jack knew exactly how he felt, but knew Johnny needed to toughen up quick, otherwise he was going to be lunch for one of the many thousands of man-eaters th
at were out there. Jack told him, "We don't really have a choice in this decision."
"How am I going to get used to this? I just looked at those things and I felt I could shit through the eye of a needle."
Jack began to laugh.
"It's not funny. I'm gonna have a heart attack in my first week."
"You will adapt."
"What about the gates?" Johnny was referring to the entrance gates which were normally controlled electronically. But now the electricity was no more, the gates could be moved with enough force. It kind of reminded Jack of the situation back at the sports centre.
"The gates won't be a problem." Jack winked at Johnny and fired the engine. "Ready?"
Johnny shook his head. "Er, no."
Jack smiled at Johnny's attempt at humour in such a dire situation. He kind of reminded him of himself when the outbreak first occurred. Jack said, "In the Hollywood movies, you're supposed to say: I was born ready."
Johnny added, "Yeah, well some Hollywood movie this'd make. I wasn't born ready; and I have no intention of running around wearing a white vest and smashing the heads of these things and shouting out, yippee ki-yay, motherfucker."
Jack pulled the jeep forward to the entrance gates and turned the jeep around so that the back-end of the vehicle was facing the gates. Jack slipped the motor into reverse and floored the accelerator, making the jeep's tyres squeal and zoom backwards. Causing minor damage, the jeep forced open the gates and Jack swung the steering round so the vehicle spun one hundred and eighty degrees and was now facing forwards.
Jack turned to Johnny. "You okay?"
He quickly nodded, and winced when he said, "I might have released a little wee."
Jack slipped the vehicle into first and went forward. The dead, by the fence, had now moved away and had stumbled into the road. Jack knew that he would have to manoeuvre the motor carefully, in order not to cause too much damage to the new vehicle he had stolen.
He was convinced that such a vehicle could mow down these things with ease, but he didn't want dents, blood and brain matter all over it so soon. He took his foot off the gas and weaved around the hideous things that desperately tried to claw at the sheet of metal that surrounded the two men inside.
Jack was doing an exceptional job, until he accidentally hit the dead boy.
The boy went under the vehicle and both men's backsides jumped up as the wheels went over the body. Although he was already dead, Jack immediately thought of Thomas and tried to shake it off.
Johnny asked, "Where to now? Lichfield? Burton?"
"I suppose the best thing to do is lay low. The longer we wait, the more chance, as time passes by, that these things might slowly die off and help could come our way."
"Isn't that just wishful thinking?"
"It is wishful thinking," Jack agreed with Johnny, and was in no way angry for his negativity, "but it's all I can think of right now, and I'm not spending another night in the woods, that's for sure."
"I could imagine the sleep deprivation must have been murder."
Jack nodded. "Especially when you're on you own, and you've go no one to cover your back."
"So where to, if you think going back to mine will be too dangerous?"
"I have one idea. Back to my ex's. That's all I can think of. Depends on how many of those things are there, I suppose. It's not far."
"And if it's too busy there?"
Jack shrugged his shoulders. "I dunno."
That wasn't the answer Johnny was hoping for.
Chapter Fourteen
Their journey had been mundane and unproblematic throughout, but now the only thing they had to moan about, apart from the obvious dehydration and hunger, was the stress the hill was putting on their thighs and lower back. They both eventually got to the top of the large hill, where five hundred yards of flat ground greeted them.
The wind was predictably boisterous on this reasonably dry day, and Karen pointed over to a cluster of trees where the cabin should be. Their eyes couldn't see it at that moment, but Karen was convinced that behind those trees was an open area where the cabin was.
Pickle looked around at the view and could see the back of the Pear Tree Estate of Rugeley. The streets seemed reasonably clear and he couldn't understand why. Unless everyone in that area had escaped, or had been slaughtered.
Granted, his eyes could only clock half a dozen streets, but at the moment he couldn't see any signs of bodies strewn across the roads. There were fires in the distance, but he was hoping that the worst of it had already happened, because if this cabin was a pointless exercise, they were going to have to go to the edge of town to find somewhere to sleep.
Karen was looking at the same area he was, and spoke up. "Looks fairly clear."
"True," Pickle said, "and if that shack is still there and clear, we can stay there for as long as we can. The longer away from those things, the more chance we stand o' surviving, providing we get some supplies."
"What happens if this cabin is empty? No food or nothing?"
"Then we're gonna have to raid a few houses and bring the food back up here."
Karen fired another question. "And if the cabin is inhabited?"
"Then we move on, if they don't give us a bed for a few nights. I'm not gonna harm people to get what I want."
Karen raised her eyebrows at her companion as if to say: Isn't that what you used to do?
"Okay." He smiled, realising what he had just said was a little hypocritical. "Back then it was about business. This is about survival. I've never harmed anyone that didn't deserve it."
"Really?" Karen was unsure. She placed either hand on the side of her head and sat down on the grassy, steep hill. "We are getting desperate now, though."
Pickle was a little perplexed at what Karen had just said. Was she hinting that the pair of them should be a lot more ruthless? Was it the dehydration talking? Or was she just physically and emotionally exhausted?
Pickle asked, "So if there's a family in there, are yer quite happy to move them out by force, is that what yer sayin'?"
"Of course not."
Pickle motioned with his hand for Karen to get back on her feet. She did as she was told, and wearily followed behind the man she had known for a short time.
Pickle walked towards the cluster of trees, with Karen following suit. Once they got near to the area, they both stopped, then cautiously walked and came to a six-foot fence with a gate the same size as the surrounding fence that was situated in the middle.
"I don't remember there being a fence." Karen rubbed her eyes, ready to collapse in a heap and sleep for a day.
"Who used to live here?" asked Pickle.
"Some old man. When he died, numerous people bought it and used is as some kind of retreat."
Pickle rubbed his thin beard in thought, and added, "I suppose it's one o' these places that yer can use to have time for yourself, to pray, and get in touch with nature."
Karen glared at the man to see if he was being serious or not. "Sounds boring to me."
Pickle smiled and playfully punched Karen on the arm. "That's because yer a young chick. Yer should be still going to clubs and gettin' drunk."
"Those days are well and truly over."
Pickle went to reach for the gate's knob and tried twisting it. It wouldn't open. He used a little force this time and the gate rattled. If need be, Karen was sure that Pickle could smash through the gate, but out of respect for whom or whomever was in there, she never suggested such a thing.
Impatiently, Karen snapped, "Just look over."
"Okay."
Being the same height as the fence, Pickle went on his tip-toes and could see over. The cabin was reasonably large, and in front of it there was a small garden that was dark, as it appeared to be congested with the shadows of the tall trees that surrounded the area that allowed in little sunlight. Twenty yards in front of the house was an old-looking shed to the left side of the garden. Opposite the shed was a tree stump that seemed to be the
place that maybe some wood-chopping would take place.
Pickle could obviously not tell from looking outside, but he guessed that maybe it was one of those recluse cabins that had no electricity, gas or phones. He guessed that the person/people who came here, came to get away from the stress of twenty-first century life, away from technology, and to converse with Mother Nature.
Without warning Karen in advance, Pickle pulled himself up and threw himself over. From behind the fence he could hear Karen releasing profanities that were about him, and he stayed where he was until seconds later she followed his lead.
Karen was clearly exhausted, and it looked as if that one climb over the fence had sapped any energy she had left. Once they were in the grounds, they both stood at the end of the garden and looked at the front of the cabin. She then questioned Pickle, "What now?"
"Knock on the door and introduce ourselves."
"Simple as that? We're trespassing on their property."
"Doesn't matter what we do, Karen, they're gonna be startled at first anyway. Let's just hope it's empty."
They tentatively walked forward and could see that the windows of the place were in desperate need of a wash. They went past the stump and the dilapidated shed, then Pickle progressed a little further forward than Karen, and was only yards away from rattling the front door.
"That's close enough," a voice snarled.
Pickle and Karen both stopped in their tracks, and gazed at the slightly opened window to their right—the one to their left was shut tightly, and although they couldn't see a face, they could see the double-barrel shotgun pointing at Pickle's midriff.
Both Karen and Pickle slowly raised their hands in the air without being asked to do so.
Chapter Fifteen
Going back to Rugeley and heading for Kerry's house was forcing Jack to re-live some of the events that had happened to him in the first few days when the news of the outbreak was announced. The days of riding on the lime-green, stolen BMW motorbike seemed like an age ago.
Snatchers (Book 3): The Dead Don't Cry Page 6
